down　that　weighty　object。

With our customary workaday ease； he asked me； “When your book is

finished；　will　those　who　see　my　work　appreciate　my　skill？”

“If　we　can；　God　willing；　finish　this　book　without　interference；　Our　Sultan

will　look　it　over；　of　course；　checking　first　to　see　whether　we　used　enough　gold

leaf　in　the　appropriate　places。　Then；　as　if　reading　a　description　of　Himself；　as

any　sultan　would；　He’ll　stare　at　his　own　portrait；　struck　by　His　own　likeness

rather　than　by　our　magnificent　illustrations；　thereafter；　if　He　takes　the　time　to

examine the spectacle we’ve painstakingly and devotedly created at the

expense　of　the　light　of　our　eyes；　so　much　the　better。　You　know；　as　well　as　I；　that

barring　a　miracle；　He’ll　lock　the　book　away　in　His　treasury　without　even　asking

who made the frame or the gilded illuminations； who painted this man or

that　horse—and　like　all　skillful　artisans；　we’ll　go　back　to　painting；　ever　hopeful

that　one　day　a　miracle　of　acknowledgment　will　find　us。”

186

We　were　silent　for　a　while；　as　if　patiently　waiting　for　something。

“When　will　that　miracle　happen？”　he　asked。　“When　will　all　those　paintings

we’ve　worked　on　until　we　could　no　longer　see　straight　truly　be　appreciated？

When　will　they　give　me；　give　us；　the　respect　we　deserve？”

“Never！”

“How　so？”

“They’ll　never　give　you　what　you　want；”　I　said。　“In　the　future；　you’ll　be　even

less　appreciated。”

“Books　last　for　centuries；”　he　said　proudly　but　without　confidence。

“Believe　me；　none　of　the　Veian　masters　have　your　poetic　sensibility；　your

conviction；　your　sensitivity；　the　purity　and　brightness　of　your